


Ever Returning to the Charge

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Feels, Canon Era, Developing Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Returning Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9617486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: After Enjolras notices that Grantaire has been absent from Les Amis meetings, he seeks to learn where the libertine has gone so as to make amends for whatever drove him away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [@godlingcaptainchristina](https://tmblr.co/m5i7dqgNJVd8oeRyOMZoygQ). Title comes from the Brick, in reference to Grantaire's relationship with Enjolras (and apt, given the subject of this fic).
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“Go with solidarity, my brothers, and soon we will see all of Paris roused to our Cause and rallied to our Call!”  


Enjolras’s words were met with a round of cheers, bringing the meeting to a close. Enjolras shared a smile with his closest lieutenants before sitting for the first time in over an hour. His break would be only temporary; time was a luxury only the bourgeois could afford and more preparation was needed. But even as Enjolras gratefully accepted a cup from Combeferre and took a sip, he scanned the room, something amiss even with his mind otherwise occupied.

It took him a long moment to realize that there was no glaring error present; rather, what struck him as wrong was the absence of a constant: Grantaire, the libertine and resident cynic who nonetheless was as consistent a presence as darkness to the night. It took him a moment longer to scan his memories and realize that he had not seen Grantaire some four meetings hence, an oddity that he felt remorse at not realizing earlier. “Where is Grantaire?” he asked Combeferre in an undertone, hoping not to draw attention to the question.

Combeferre shook his head, not looking up from the pamphlets spread in front of him. “He has not been here a few weeks, I don’t think,” he said, confirming Enjolras’s realization. “Surely you noticed? There is a reason our meetings have gone undisturbed of late by the fumes of wine and rants of nonbelievers.”

Enjolras sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “Truth be told, I had not noticed,” he told Combeferre honestly. “Perhaps I hear Grantaire’s mocking voice in my head enough that I did not miss the reality.”

“As if you didn’t have more important things to worry about than one missing libertine,” Combeferre scoffed with a smile, though his smile faded when he saw the look on Enjolras’s face. “I know not where Grantaire may be, but if it would ease your mind to know, you would best ask our other friends, as they are on closer terms with him than I or you.”

For a moment, Enjolras hesitated, knowing that they had much work to do, but then he stood. “I will be only a moment,” he told Combeferre before striding across the room to where Joly and Bossuet sat sharing a bottle of wine in the corner. Both men fell silent as Enjolras approached, and Enjolras hesitated before asking carefully, “I noticed that our cynic has been missing recently and wished to enquire: do either of you know where he has been of late?”

Bossuet shook his head wordlessly and took a swig from the bottle of wine, while Joly sighed and placed his hands on top of the table, looking as if he was choosing his words carefully. “I have sworn to go through fire for you as for this Cause,” he started politely, “but I do not believe an answer to this question would be in service of either.”

“Besides, there are more important vows we make,” Bossuet muttered darkly. “Vows not easily broken.”

Though Enjolras nodded as if he understood, in truth this answer made him feel even more troubled than before, and he turned to seek the next of their friends who might know the answer – and who might be willing to share it with him. “Bahorel,” he called, catching the man just as he was tying his cravat, clearly about to seek his own bed. “Wait a moment, if you please.”

He hurried over to him, well aware of Joly and Bossuet’s eyes following him across the room, and when he reached Bahorel, Enjolras took his arm and walked with him towards the stairs at the back of the room. “I wanted to ask – do you know where Grantaire has been?”

Bahorel turned his hat almost nervously in his hands, a frown puckering his forehead. “On that subject, I am sworn to secrecy,” he said seriously, “save to say that Grantaire has left Paris for a time to seek time to himself.”

“Left Paris?” Enjolras asked, dazed. He had assumed at worst that Grantaire had found different company to keep, not left the city entirely. “But…why? And to where?”

Bahorel shook his head. “Please,” he said, his voice quiet and controlled. “Do not seek him out. Let him be.”

Enjolras’s hand dropped from Bahorel’s arm, and he looked away. “I feel as though this is my fault,” he said quietly. “I know not why and could not explain it if asked, but if the fault is mine, you must tell me where I may find him so that I may make what amends I am able to.”

A muscle worked in Bahorel’s jaw. “You wish to make _amends_?” he repeated, a dangerous edge in his voice. “Amends, when you cannot even explain the wrong?” He shook his head. “If you could manage to explain why it even matters to you where Grantaire is, then perhaps I would be more willing to acquiesce. But as it stands now…”

He shook his head again and practically jammed his hat on, nodding curtly at Enjolras and taking his leave. Enjolras stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Then he turned and retraced his steps to his chair. “My apologies,” he told Combeferre, pulling a pamphlet to him. “Where were we?”

But as Combeferre began to talk, Enjolras found his own mind far away.

* * *

The knock on Bahorel’s door was insistent, and Bahorel groaned, rolling over to kiss his mistress on the cheek before slipping out of bed. She groaned and pulled the coverlet over her. “What is happening?” she asked drowsily.

“Nothing of concern, I am sure,” Bahorel assured her. “Let me go send this fiend from the door and then I shall return.”

The knock sounded again and Bahorel gnashed his teeth together as he strode to the door, ready to challenge whomever disturbed his sleep to a duel to the death. But any curses on his lips died when he opened the door to see Enjolras looking up at him, exhaustion clear on his face. “Enjolras?” Bahorel asked, surprised. “What brings you to my door at this hour? Have you even slept?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, I could find no respite in my bed this past night.” He drew a tired hand across his face before admitting, “I tossed and turned in my bedclothes, consumed with worry for Grantaire.”

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “You can save yourself the dramatics,” he started, but when Enjolras looked up at him, something close to desperation on his face, Bahorel sighed. “If truly you are worried about Grantaire’s welfare, then know this: Grantaire is safe, and is better left alone, especially by you.”

“I do not think you truly mean that,” Enjolras said, raising his chin defiantly, and when Bahorel hesitated, Enjolras said quietly, “Please. If truly he has no desire to speak to me, if truly he wishes to be undisturbed, I need hear it from him.”

After a moment, Bahorel sighed and relented. “Fine. He has gone to stay with his cousin in Montrouge, just south of the city.” Enjolras gave Bahorel a quick smile in thanks and turned to leave, but Bahorel stopped him. “I warn you, though, if all you do is bring him misery when he has left the city to avoid it…”

He trailed off, leaving the threat unspoken, and Enjolras nodded, his expression turning solemn. “I swear, I will do no harm with this information.”

With that, he left, and Bahorel closed the door after him, his own expression dark. “Yet I fear you will do harm even without intention,” he murmured before going to rejoin his mistress in bed.

* * *

When Bahorel entered the Musain for the next meeting, it was with a certain amount of trepidation, and he was unsurprised to see Grantaire seated at his usual table with Joly and Bossuet, all three laughing and drinking as though Grantaire had never been absent. Grantaire’s eyes met Bahorel’s briefly, and his smile flickered for just a moment, but it was quickly replaced by his usual wide grin. Still, it was enough to leave Bahorel stricken, so much so that he could not wait for the meeting to be finished so that he might get a chance to speak to Grantaire.

As soon as the speeches had finished, Bahorel stood and followed Grantaire, who was making for the wide window overlooking the street below. “So it was you who told him,” Grantaire said in lieu of greeting, perching on the windowsill and looking down at the evening bustle of the street below.

Bahorel nodded and leaned against the wall. “I did not want to,” he said. “I knew that time was the best remedy for your ails and I promised to respect that.” His tone turned earnest. “But if you had seen him – if you had heard him—”

“You need not explain yourself to me,” Grantaire told him with a flash of his old smile. “I know as well as any what power Enjolras holds when he wants something.”

Though Bahorel nodded again, there was something shrewd in his expression. “Is that how he convinced you to return?”

Grantaire looked carefully at him, a shadow flitting across his face so quickly that Bahorel almost didn’t notice it. Then he laughed and looked away again. “It is not a tale you want to hear,” he said.

“On the contrary,” Bahorel said sharply. “He promised me that he would do no harm with the information I gave him.”

“Ah, so you seek to assuage your own conscience,” Grantaire said, but his tone was teasing, and Bahorel relaxed slightly. “Fine, then I shall tell you. And you may judge your own conscience for yourself…”

* * *

Grantaire sat crosslegged in a field outside of the village, smoking a pipe while his hand flashed across the page of his sketchbook, the charcoal in his hand quickly filling in the white page. “The country air agrees with you,” Enjolras said in lieu of a greeting, and Grantaire started, the charcoal falling from his hand as he looked up at him, shocked.

“Enjolras,” he said, scrambling to his feet and wiping his hands quickly on his pants to try to clear them of the charcoal residue. Once on his feet, he stood awkwardly, holding himself almost defensively as he stared at Enjolras. “You’re a long way from Paris.”

“Not as long as you might think,” Enjolras returned. “And only because you are also a long way from Paris.”

Grantaire relaxed slightly, settling into their usual pattern of banter. “Ah, but my presence here makes sense, and yours does not.”

Enjolras sighed, his expression drawn and tired. “Your presence here makes no more sense than mine.”

“Yet I have family here, such as my delightful cousin Maurice might be considered, and you have no connection whatsoever to this delightful hamlet that boasts as many monarchists as sheep, it would seem.”

Grantaire’s tone was careful, calculating even, and Enjolras tilted his head ever so slightly, considering Grantaire with equal care. “I have you here, do I not?” he asked lightly.

Grantaire was taken aback by the question and shook his head, something almost sad in his voice as he replied, “Just as you had me in Paris, or indeed would have me across the world if you so chose. But that was not enough to keep me in Paris, nor, I wager, is it enough to merit you coming all the way out here.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras started, his voice settling into the careful timbre he most used when trying to persuade recalcitrant sympathizers to the cause, “I feel as though I have been unfair to you. Your absence has been keenly felt and while you may not play a crucial role in carrying out the various aspects of our revolution, you play a crucial role among our friends.”

“So you intercede on behalf of our friends?” Grantaire asked, smirking slightly. “How magnanimous of you.” Enjolras blushed but Grantaire carried on, his tone turning mocking. “And yet most of those same friends knew of my whereabouts, and agreed with – nay, and _encouraged_ me to seek refuge away from the city. Even were I to overlook that, were this an intercession on behalf of our friends, do you not think that another of our friends would be better suited to the task? Courfeyrac perhaps, if you could spare one of your closest lieutenants, or Jolllly?” He shook his head and laughed bitterly. “Frankly, any gamin you might pay a coin to carry a letter could have achieved this task. Certainly were he promised equal payment on return, the gamin would be more convincing in this task than you, and equally as sincere.”

Enjolras shook his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. “You doubt my sincerity?” he asked quietly.

“Only insomuch as I find myself able to doubt any aspect of you, yes,” Grantaire returned, no hint of laughter in his voice now.

“Then how is this for sincerity,” Enjolras said, crossing to Grantaire and crushing his lips against his in what might charitably be called a kiss, though there was too much anger and frustration for it to be of what poets write and lovers dream.

So it was little surprise that Grantaire pushed him away, his eyes flashing furiously. “Must everything be a weapon you would use to strike at my very heart?” he asked, though the question seemed aimed more at himself than Enjolras. “Is it not enough to meet my every advance with scorn and derision?  Do you think I know not where I rank, that you must mock me on top of all else?”

“This is no mockery,” Enjolras told him quietly. “You asked for sincerity, and I lay it at your feet – or perhaps on your lips.” Grantaire did not smile and Enjolras sighed, seeking the words that would put this right. “I slept not a minute of the night I learned you were gone, and I have found myself unable to focus on the plight of the people when I am preoccupied with the plight you carry in your heart.” Still Grantaire remained silent, and Enjolras shook his head. “Still the skeptic,” he sighed, his voice softening as he looked at Grantaire. “If in the past I have dealt with you harshly, I beg your indulgence. I am…unused to such feelings, and consider them to be a distraction from what is most important.”

For the first time, Grantaire spoke, asking cautiously, “And would they not still be a distraction?”

“Perhaps,” Enjolras allowed. “But clearly their absence is as much a distraction as their presence, and I know which distraction I would rather on occasion assuage.”

Grantaire lifted his chin slightly. “Then all that remains is for you to ask.”

“Ask what?” Enjolras asked, confused.

Grantaire smiled slightly. “For me to return. With you.”

Enjolras smiled as well, genuine warmth in his smile. “Grantaire, it would give me great pleasure were you to return to Paris with me, to resume your place in our group and your role as the only distraction I would ever tolerate.” Grantaire looked at him expectantly, and Enjolras blinked, clearly unsure of what else to say. Then his smiled widened and he inclined his head slightly as he added softly, “Please.”

“Very well,” Grantaire said, stretching and yawning. “I do believe that country life was not for me anyway. Let us adjourn to Paris, together.”

And together they headed back towards the village, Grantaire’s sketchbook lying abandoned in the swaying grass, a half-finished sketch of Enjolras just barely visible.

* * *

Bahorel shook his head, clearly impressed, and leaned back against the wall, his own expression turning serene. “Then it seems I made the right decision by telling him,” he said, a little self-satisfied, and Grantaire laughed.

“Of course you were,” he said easily. “Now think no more of it. Whatever else may happen, it brought me back here. And that is what matters.”

Bahorel grinned and clapped Grantaire on the shoulder before turning and rejoining the rest of their friends who still congregated at the far side of the room.

The rest of the friends save one, at least: Courfeyrac was sitting nearby, using the relative quiet of that side of the room to examine a pamphlet for errors, though he had long since pushed it aside and now cleared his throat to draw Grantaire’s attention. “That was a very nice story,” he told Grantaire, who just shrugged, staring out the window again. “Though I must confess, I am curious as to why you would lie to Bahorel when he meant no harm.”

Grantaire shrugged again. “He will sleep better this eve for the lie, and that is a comfort in and of itself. He has wasted too much time dwelling on concerns for me, something I would ask from none of our friends.”

Courfeyrac nodded slowly in understanding. “So you eased his conscience, even by burdening your own,” he said gently, and when Grantaire did not answer, asked, “Forgive me for asking, and you may withhold the truth from me as well if you wish, but what did bring you back?”

Grantaire turned away from the window, his expression carefully blank. “I hinted at it even in the story I told,” he said. “Enjolras sent a message with a gamin and asked me to return.”

“And that was all it took?” Courfeyrac asked, surprised.

“It is the first time Enjolras has asked anything of me,” Grantaire said, snagging the bottle of wine from its position at Courfeyrac’s elbow and a taking a swig. “And when one’s own heart asks, I find myself helpless to resist.”

With that, he too made his way toward the other side of the room, still holding Courfeyrac’s bottle of wine, and as Courfeyrac heard Grantaire’s laughter, loudest among their friends, he could not help but wonder at what could be if only Grantaire’s story had been true.  



End file.
